


Will You Remember Me When I Go?

by NancyBrown



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Dark, Dubious Consent, M/M, Non Consensual, Retcon (Torchwood)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-24
Updated: 2011-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-23 00:53:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NancyBrown/pseuds/NancyBrown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack takes what he needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Will You Remember Me When I Go?

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from twclssckinkmeme: Coersion/manipulation. Jack has no qualms about retconning Ianto for his own selfish reasons, when the need arises.

Jack is an open wound, throbbing and bleeding. It's Alex's blood he can't seem to wash off, and Trisha's, and Manuel's. He's been sticky with it, nearly bathing in it as he performed the lonely job of locking their bodies away in the vault. Not his blood, but he's bleeding.

He used to deal with this kind of horror with booze. His last sponsor died five years ago and he's due, but what if he misses his chance to see the Doctor because he's dying from alcohol poisoning again? He'll indulge other vices tonight, striding through the ever-fucking-present Cardiff rain. It's not cold enough to snow or sleet, just to pour this miserable winter wetness down on his head, soaking through the sanctity of his coat.

The club blasts warm air in his face, and the odour of men wearing too much cologne. The music throbs like his also ever-fucking-present pulse, like the life blood he can't seem to bleed out sufficiently. He hates this music, but he dances in the centre of the floor, grinding his crotch against one body after the other until he's wild and ready to pop.

Jack drags the closest body out into the cold, wet alley, protected from the rain by a dripping overhang. There's no time to talk, not with his tongue doing its damnedest to crawl down this guy's tonsils despite the nasty aftertaste of his last smoke. There's no room to think, not with both zips dropping to grasp hold of hot cocks. There's no space on his skin for tacky blood when a sticky shot of come covers his hand. He's still hard and ready, pushing the guy to face the filthy, damp wall.

The guy trembles, and the swirling mist that is Jack's brain right now throws up a sign that doesn't stay "Stop," but does suggest yielding.

"Not gonna fuck you unless you beg," Jack groans, biting the words into the guy's left ear.

"Don't," comes the reply, almost a plea itself, and that's not the voice of the twenty-something Jack had intended to pull.

Jack rolls him around again, takes in the face. "How old are you, kid?"

"Nineteen." It's a lie, not a thick one. The kid is seventeen, maybe eighteen, and doesn't have that broken face the boys that age do when they're whoring themselves for drugs or money. Jack can't stand that face. He's got higher standards, though not by much.

"First time in this club?" First time at all?

"Fuck you."

Jack spins him back against the wall. Death in his thoughts, he's of a mind to take what he wants. Instead he rubs his dick hard against the kid's backside for friction and clears his mind of the last time he fucked Trisha, the last time he shot semen onto Alex's belly. He grabs his cock to wank himself to climax, biting down on the kid's neck hard enough to draw blood and making a mess on his back.

Jack's the one trembling now, and the kid pushes him away, rubbing at the tooth marks. "Fucking vampire."

Jack grins as he puts himself away and redoes his trousers. There's a shocky look on the kid's face he doesn't like as the boy turns and does up his own flies. "You okay, kid?"

The hand keeps rubbing at his neck. It's a fidget. He's starting to freak out. "Jesus, what just happened?"

I used you, and in this light you're younger than I thought. Shit.

"Nothing much. Here." Jack digs into his coat pocket and pulls out a bottle. One white pill in his hand, and a comforting smile on his face. Normally he reserves this for the alien sightings, but since he wants to down a truckload of these himself and forget the twentieth century, he can't talk. "Aspirin. Sorry for the bite."

The kid looks at his hand, clearly doesn't believe Jack's bullshit story, and dry-swallows it anyway. He doesn't say thanks.

"You got a home?"

The kid half-shrugs, teenager-speak for "Yeah, what?" Jack's been the father of multiple teenagers and knows it well.

"Get inside out of the cold, and come back to this place when you're older. And lay off the Lynx, you're trying too hard."

"You can really fuck off." The kid turns and stomps down the alley, getting a shoe full of freezing rainwater for his trouble. Jack bites the inside of his cheek so as not to laugh.

It's the first time he's wanted to laugh in days.

***

Paul's not the best field agent Jack's ever worked with, but they've got a good rapport. They've been sleeping together amiably for the last year, but Paul's heart is smitten with their new medic. Once Nia stops denying herself, the two of them are going to be inseparable. Nia's hot, Jack has to admit, with a high, tight arse and long legs to wrap around a man like ropes. He'd love being the filling in a Paul and Nia sandwich. He ought to cut out the middleman in their tiptoeing and seduce them both.

"Earth to Jack," Paul says, elbowing him. "We've got witnesses to Retcon, no scoping out the lovelies." He's mistaken Jack's contemplation for lust, and given what Jack was considering, it's a good guess.

"Jealous?"

"Crowded." Paul gave a deep faked sigh. "But fine. Go forth and enjoy yourself, and don't bring anything home you don't intend to feed and water for the next ten years." He blows a kiss to Jack as he waves him off.

Jack laughs, palming his bottle of Retcon. Witness duty annoys him. He ought to hire someone to be the crying shoulder and the warm cuppa that rids them of inconvenient news articles and internet speculations before they're written.

There are only three witnesses. Jack pretends to take their statements one by one, offering them beers at the local while he writes everything up. He has the first two bleary-eyed within twenty minutes, and suggests they head home, and to call him if they think of something else. He doesn't give them a number.

He turns his full attention on the third witness. "You haven't touched your drink."

"Neither have you."

Jack raises his eyebrows, then takes a sip of water. "Better?" Something bothers him about this witness, something more than the suspicion in the blue eyes. His hair's too long, his face too sharp.

"Sure." The witness takes one insouciant sip of his own.

"So what did you see, Mr ... ?"

"Jones. Ianto Jones."

"Spell that for me?" The guy does, watching him the whole time. "What did you see?"

"A big fucking monster with sharp teeth killed that guy your 'friend' carried off."

The kid's hand goes to the back of his neck and rubs. Jack's mental black book throws up a face without a name. It's been three years, and the kid might be that nineteen now. He's growing into his face and he's not bathing in cologne anymore, though he's still wearing something cheap. Jack's eyebrows go up again, and he pretends to write down the kid's story.

He has a stray thought of Paul. He puts a finger up to pause the kid mid-description and calls. Nia picks up. Jack rings off instead of saying hello. "Sorry, where were we?" He slides the kid's beer away, puts on his best smile, and touches the kid's arm, and he's going to have so much sex tonight.

The kid swears he's straight, even as his mouth devours Jack's. He's not into this stuff, he doesn't do guys, he says, his hand much more assured than last time. The cheap room Jack paid for in pound notes smells exactly like it should: a sleazy place where people fuck and leave. It's spring outside, but it's always late November in dives like this, with their long-dead cigarette smoke and the stale reek of semen. He's whispered the dirtiest things he can think of into the kid's ear, and no matter how straight he claims to be, Ianto Jones is pumping into his mouth like a pro as Jack sucks hard, and he's shouting in a very pretty voice as he comes down Jack's throat.

Jack's bright enough this time to give him a quick rest in the manky bed, to hand him the bottle he brought with them, even pretending to take a long pull before he watches that gorgeous throat gulp the rest greedily.

"I don't normally do this," Ianto says, and as he takes one more drink, there's that glassiness Jack's been wanting.

"It's easy. Watch." Jack takes his mouth again, forcing himself to tenderness, even as his dick, ignored, is hard as steel against his belly. He's got the sachet of lube ready.

"Wait ... "

"Easy." Jack presses him down to the mattress, feeling the muscles weighted down by the sedative. He doesn't want to fuck a sleeping man, so he hurries with his fingers, ignoring the whine in Ianto's throat as he thrusts two in at once. "Easy." When he has time, he takes time, but this is about blood spatters behind Jack's eyes, and the mental picture of Paul fucking Nia like dogs do.

He remembers the condom barely in time.

"Easy," says Jack like a prayer, and the kid is slick and tight around him, and so hot as he moans, eyes going shut. From pleasure, from tiredness, Jack will imagine it's the former as he thrusts fast and deep. "Push back against me."

The kid stays lax, letting Jack do the work and take his own enjoyment. Jack's eyes shut tight, and it doesn't matter whose body is under him, nothing matters but the firm heat and the tautness building fast in his balls. He could go like this all night. He could pop right now.

The kid's eyes are open again, though he's almost out and won't remember any of this, more's the pity, and he lets out a choked sob. Jack comes, howling.

When he's coherent again, the kid is dead asleep with Jack's softening cock still inside him. Jack pulls out, disposes of the condom, and then surveys the room. He ought to clean up the scene, dress the kid, and make it look like a binge. Or he can leave everything and make sure the kid thinks what happened is basically what happened, minus the aliens trying to kill him first. If the kid is still telling himself he's straight, he won't want to get those memories back anytime soon.

Jack likes this plan.

He probably shouldn't run into this guy again anytime soon, not chance the Retcon. "Go someplace," he says into a sleeping ear. "Get the hell out of Cardiff, go live your life." Maybe it'll take, maybe it won't.

When he gets back, and finds Paul and Nia wrapped naked around each other, he's not surprised.

***

Jack has to work to get into Ianto's pants this time around, taking almost a full week from the day he offers him the job to having him on his knees beside Tosh's workstation. Ianto's self-disgust after is apparent. It won't make an easy work environment for any of them. Fortunately, Jack has a backup plan, and offers him a laced drink of water.

"It helps wash out the taste. Go on."

He doesn't fuck Ianto again until months later, when the surly face he remembers has returned in force. Ianto's flat is practically bare, the slanted autumn light casting bleak shadows as they grapple on the floor. It starts out as a "No," and a "Fuck you," but he said yes to the soup Jack brought as a peace offering, and it doesn't take long for Ianto to stop resisting. He's awake enough to come on the cheap rug. He's sleepy enough to lay there as Jack looks around this crappy, empty space and suggests he fix it up. Jack goes for another turn after Ianto passes out, but it's not as much fun.

Ianto doesn't recall much about the cannibals. Owen thinks it's shock. Jack thinks he needs to plan more, if this is going to keep happening. He's one of the best lays who ever lived, and it's practically a crime that Ianto remains unaware of this.

"Come to me when you're ready to remember," he says into a barely-conscious shoulder.

***

It's a sweltering day, sweat pouring down anyone wearing more than a scrap of clothing. Jack's in his shirtsleeves. Ianto has left his jacket, and abandoned the waistcoat in the back of the SUV. He looks different without them, more dangerous. Jack likes the look, though not enough to have him like this all the time. Suits are sexy.

There's been an incident. If Jack had a quid for every time something was classified as "an incident" during his career with Torchwood, he'd be a very wealthy man. The "incident" has been cleaned up, cleared up, and shipped back off-world, and now there's the matter of eye-witnesses to deal with. Gwen's good at this, but Gwen and Rhys have escaped to Spain for a weekend.

"I'll take the two on the left, you take the half dozen on the right."

"Clearly that's a good idea."

Jack grins again, this time in mock apology for his mock plan, and there's a matching glimmer in Ianto's eyes that says he's going to be punished in an exciting manner later.

Jack's gaze passes over the crowd, and then stutters to a halt. Paul Dearborne is standing on a street in Cardiff, and he's watching Jack.

Ianto's not stupid. "Another ex?"

"Let me handle this one."

He strides up to the crowd with a shit-eating grin. "If you'll all come with me, I need to take your statements. We've got ice cold water ready while you wait." That's enough to catch their interest. Ianto is already at the SUV, distributing the prepared bottles.

Jack takes Paul's arm. "Let's start with you, sir. What's your name?"

"Harry Sharpe." He spells it, though Jack doesn't need the reminder.

"Mr. Sharpe, what brings you to Cardiff?" Paul's got a northern accent. It's an easy question.

"Business. My company is having a workshop at the St. David's."

"Lovely hotel." There's no recognition in Paul's eyes, nor even any interest. Jack's a little offended. "And what did you see?"

As Paul launches into details, Jack takes a doctored water bottle from Ianto and hands it to his old lover. He thanks him for his comments, and moves on to the next person. By the time they're finished, the crowd has dispersed with a group suggestion to find somewhere cool to sleep off the heat stroke. He makes himself not follow Paul back to his hotel.

Ianto waits until they're ready to go. "Are you going to tell me?"

"He's Torchwood, or was. When I took over the Cardiff branch, I put together a team of my own."

Ianto nods. He's seen most of the records. "They were all listed as deceased."

"His lover was killed. It was bad, really bad. After we locked her body away, he asked me for Retcon. I set him up with a new life. Toshiko started a few weeks later."

"That's the pension plan, isn't it? If you live long enough to leave, you get a handful of pills and a dossier." Tosh hadn't lived long enough. They'd postponed starting work on Owen's new life when he'd been fired, and then he'd died twice.

They drive in silence, Ianto knowing these roads by memory as much as Jack does. "Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"Did he really ask you?"

 _Paul pleaded not to lose his memories of Nia. "They're all I have left of her. Please, Jack!" Jack forced the first pill down. After that, Paul was pliable enough to take the rest without a single complaint. He'd been getting sloppy in his grief. Disloyal. Retcon was for the best, although for obvious reasons Paul would never be able to understand that._

Jack smiles. "He helped write up his new identity."

"Was he your lover?"

"For a while. Does that bother you?"

"No. I was just curious."

They drive back to Ianto's flat, because it's close. Jack likes this place, loves the thick carpet under his bare feet, loves the plush mattress cover and Egyptian cotton sheets, and the downy duvet. He adores the musky, subtle scent Ianto wears at his pulse point, adores how much better his kisses taste now he's given up smoking for good. Ianto's tight and hot and cuntwet with lube when Jack slicks himself and thrusts inside. He moves every muscle in time with Jack, and oh, Jack loves this best of all, loves the encouraging moans and the twists of Ianto's hips, and every trick Jack has taught him.

And if he does something wrong, or is angry with Jack, it's easy to erase an hour or two and give him a little push, a bit more instruction. Ianto trusts Jack completely. Jack loves that about him.

When they're done and spent, stickiness cleaned off and bodies close together in the bed, Ianto asks, "You ... you wouldn't ever Retcon me, would you? I think we ought to wipe Gwen and Rhys, let them escape this place intact, but it's too late for me." Jack fails to come up with something comforting. He's had the same thought. "But, you wouldn't do that to me, right?"

 _"Please, Jack," Paul begged, as Jack's hand clamped over his wrist. "God, how much have you already made me forget?"_

 _"Enough."_

"Of course not."  



End file.
